


The Face On the Wall

by tianaluthien



Category: Myst Series
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gap Filler, Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tianaluthien/pseuds/tianaluthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For those who have played "Myst III: Exile", this is set just before the game takes place. While on J'nanin we see the portrait of a woman without any eyes, a woman who can only be Saveedro's wife, Tamra. This is my take as to why he couldn't finish painting her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Face On the Wall

Rain bled from the heart of the leaden sky, splashing against the metal walkways with hollow echoes, dashing against the rocks, sending out ripples in the lagoon that widened and merged, losing shape and identity as they disappeared into each other. The beat of the rain drummed against the glass walls of the greenhouse and a steady stream of water poured down from the roof, splattering on the metal doorstep. Above the protection of the chasm the wind howled like a thing in pain, grabbing sand and flinging it up into the air, making it jerk about spastically… and it almost seemed to form a human shape before being torn apart by the wind. Ocean waves leapt and crashed against the sides of the island, sending up a salt spray as cold as the rain and flooding the cavern beneath one of the tusks.

Even inside the storm could be found.

The storm that screamed around the top of the main tusk echoed down the shaft to the room below and the incessant pounding of the rain formed a maddening refrain inside the man’s skull.

He sat huddled on the floor in front of a wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth, back and forth…

His hair was long and ragged, hanging down his back, and the blue robes he wore had seen better days. His hands were rough and callused and tiny white scars – aimless, spidery-thin white lines – covered his hands and arms. His face… his face… He no longer looked like himself. His face was lean from hunger, his skin lined and taut. Smile lines had been erased leaving his mouth hard. His blue eyes were sunken and hollow, scarred by memory, burning with a desire for vengeance.

Glistening with tears, yet unshed.

His hunched shoulders shuddered and heaved as he sat there, face buried in his knees. The hands clutched convulsively at his threadbare sleeves so that the knuckles turned white.

Inside his skull beat the sound of the rain and the laughter of the two men who had taken his life away. He tried desperately to block out the sounds, to push away the fog… to call up her face. Spirits, just once more… Please, just once more…

Suddenly he jerked upright, his hand outstretched, hand grasping at an image that was already fading. His callused fingertips brushed a soft face and single word escaped his lips: ‘Tamra…’

She was gone. He was along again, with the voices and the fog.

He bit down on his lip, drawing blood that trickled down his chin. He wiped it away with his hand stared at it fascinated; she had always liked the colour red…

He looked at the wall once more, empty and white, then down at the pot by his feet; perhaps it was enough.

His fingers closed over the handle of the brush, smearing his blood on the wooden shaft, and slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet.

The bristles were full of the crimson paint; she had always liked that colour…

He hesitated – _Where should I start?_ – then slashed his brush across the wall. A sweeping red arc appeared; the paint seeped into the porous wall of the tusk and the colour softened. He nodded vaguely; he had been right.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath that rattled in his chest and dipped his brush again. _Tamra…_

The blue eyes opened, glazed and distant as they tried to remember, and he began to paint.

He remembered her hair: silky, deep red like the sunrise. (The brush moved wave-like over the wall, recreating the waves of her hair.) It was soft when it brushed against his face in the morning, scented like the fire-flowers that grew down in the Rift: wild and sweet. It rippled down her back like water spilling from the roof when it rained.

A hollow moan swept down the elevator shaft and he jumped, his eyes darting nervously about the room, praying they hadn’t returned suddenly, on a whim. It had been eighteen years, why should they decide to come back _now_ …? But who knew their minds? Who knew their reasoning?

He shuddered and looked back at the wall, at the waving red hair framing a blank oval face. _Tamra…_ He dipped his pen again, closed his eyes. Her mouth… Her mouth was more difficult; cold fingers touched his heart. How did she smile…? His fingers tightened on the handle of the brush. She would not smile; he would paint her mouth in the way it looked when she was staring off into space, dreaming. (His brush touched the wall again, moving carefully, tentatively.) Her lips resting against each other, curved ever so slightly, wistfully. He remembered their touch against his own: gentle, merry. A lilting voice spoke when she opened her mouth. Something trickled down his the side of his face. 

The pounding of the rain grew stronger, striking fiercely against the side of the tusk; he did not hear it. All he saw was the painting gradually coming to life before him.

He wiped his eye, leaving a blood-red smudge behind on his skin. He dipped his brush again, blue eyes no longer distant; they glittered strangely, feverishly. Bristles touched wall, lightly dusting: she had fine cheekbones, he remembered. He mustn’t make them too heavy… he would not be able to do them over.

His hand aching, he looked at his work. Her cheekbones were just right. Yes, just right. He dipped his brush again. Her nose. Her nose was delicate, straight. He remembered the way it wrinkled when she smelled something foul. He remembered the way the tears slid down from her eyes, along her nose, tracing the contours of her mouth…

Red mist touched his mind, obscuring. He dropped his hand and clutched his head. He would not let the fog take him. He could not. If he let it take him, he would never see her again. He had to paint her. He had to see her. He had to… He had to… 

The tendrils of fog curled away. He looked at the wall again, dipped his brush and carefully drew her eyebrows. They were not thick, not thin, but just perfect. And as deep and red as her hair. He remembered the way she would arch one when she was skeptical about something…

He pulled his hand away. Her eyes. He had saved the best for last. He dipped his brush, stepped up to the wall and held up his hand again, poised.

He waited. He closed his eyes and thought. And thought. Searching. Trying to remember. Her eyes were black, he remembered… but what did they look like? 

(The cold fingers on the edge of his heart crept in further.) Her eyes were black and… and… He bit down hard on his lip. He had always loved her eyes. _Tamra…_ He tried to see her smile; it did not come. (Blood trickled from his lip again.) He clenched his hands (the wooden handle of the brush felt very hard). _Tamra…_ Her eyes… why could he not see her eyes?

He dropped the brush, clutched his head in his hands. _Tamra…_ He closed his eyes, thinking, searching. Eyes… he saw her eyes… His own eyes flashed open and he shrieked, falling to his knees. Those were not her eyes – they were Sirrus’ eyes. Achenar’s eyes. 

He screamed again, curling up on the floor. Not their faces. Not their eyes. Please, spirits, not them… 

The countless scars on his arms and hands burned with fire… He saw the linking books, pages curling with flame, turning black, turning to ash before his eyes… He saw them laughing… He saw their eyes laughing… He saw Achenar’s eyes as he came forward, a razor sharp knife in his hands… 

The fog was coming… it would take hold of him soon… it would take away the visions of Sirrus and Achenar… it would take away Tamra…

_Tamra…_

He had to finish the painting – and Sirrus and Achenar could not – would not – stop him. He fought them, he pushed them away. He clawed through memories, searching for her face.

He saw her: she stood with her back to him. Her hair glistened like fire in the early morning sun, her red dress swayed in the breeze. He called out to her and she turned her face. He saw her mouth, set as though she’d been dreaming; he saw her cheekbones, her nose, her eyebrows… Oh spirits. Her eyes were gone. Where he should have been able to see her beautiful black eyes was only emptiness. White emptiness.

He closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands. _Tamra…_ The tears ran from his eyes, scalding hot, burning his skin. _Tamra…_ She was fading. Faded. He could not see her.


End file.
